


Thirst

by AirgiodSLV



Category: The Faculty (1998) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-01
Updated: 2005-03-01
Packaged: 2019-07-20 10:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16135766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AirgiodSLV/pseuds/AirgiodSLV
Summary: He remembers that much of the party, at least. Remembers the way Josh had smiled, and the peek of his dimple along the curve of his mouth, and how Elijah’s heart had skipped a beat.





	Thirst

**Author's Note:**

> For the multi-word improv challenge. Lyrics taken from _Close Your Eyes_ by Jump, Little Children.
> 
> Content/Warnings: Vampirism

_Please_ _Close your eyes_ _Please_ _What keeps you awake_

_\- JLC_

 

 

_1999 – Los Angeles_

_Tell me you had bad dreams last night_  
_‘Cause you were rolling in your sleep_

 

When Elijah wakes up in the morning, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

His head is pounding, throbbing in time with what he assumes must be the beat of his heart, although he can’t hear it over the dull ringing in his ears. His mouth tastes awful, and his entire body aches, as though he’s spent the night doing a combination of weightlifting and gymnastics. He feels drained, weary, and far too ill to be simply hungover.

Cast party last night, he remembers. The last time they were getting together before splitting up to go their separate ways. He’d been drinking, sure, but he can’t remember drinking that much. Can’t remember…

Well, much of anything, honestly.

The light hurts, even filtered as it is in sharp rays that slice through the rifts in the blinds, laser-beams that streak across the carpet and light the way to the bathroom. His bathroom, thank goodness. At least he’d made it home. Although to be honest, he doesn’t know how that’s possible, in the condition he’s in now.

Clea might know, he thinks suddenly. She’s on some fancy allergy medication and isn’t allowed to drink, so she would have been sober last night to watch them all get wasted. Supposing, of course, that she stuck around once the party started degenerating. He can’t remember.

The medicine cabinet is too hard to pull open, and it nearly throws him onto the floor when he finally jerks at the door and it yields, swinging wide so fast that he barely catches himself in time to prevent a fall. He bangs his elbow against the counter trying to regain his balance, and the pain sends shocks up his arm, little shudder-jolts through his nerve endings.

Elijah takes a moment to just stand and keep his head from spinning, holding onto the edge of the sink with both hands to remain steady. Eventually the dizziness passes, and he hunts through the cabinet for a painkiller, pushing aside half-opened bottles of calamine lotion, cough syrup, antacid. The asprin is near the back, and the little bottle rattles promisingly when he picks it up. He works the lid free and tosses back five or six of the white tablets without preamble, screwing his eyes closed and turning on the tap to run some water into a plastic cup and wash the bitter taste out of his mouth.

He brushes his teeth because he can’t stand the way his mouth feels, but he doesn’t have energy for anything more than that, and crawls back to collapse on the bed immediately after, drawing his legs up and curling into a fetal position, breathing slowly to overcome the surge of nausea.

The clock on the bedside table reads 1:33 PM when he cracks his eyes open to look at it, and he groans – soft, to keep his head from clamouring – and reaches to pick up the phone and dial.

“Clea,” he says as soon as he hears her answer, and there’s a split-second of silence before she recognizes his voice.

“Elijah!” He hasn’t woken her, he can tell that already, so she must have turned in at a fairly reasonable hour. She even sounds cheerful, and he would resent that if it wouldn’t take too much effort and energy to do so.

“You sound better than I feel,” he says, at the same time that she asks, “How are you feeling?”

They both half-laugh, the awkward rearranging of sentences and questions to fit a new structure. “Not very well,” he admits, and her sympathetic cluck makes him smile weakly, even though he can’t see her face. “I guess I drank a lot last night, huh?”

“Well, you did,” she agrees. “But we also thought you might be coming down with something. That’s why we sent you home early, you were pretty out of it.”

“I guess so,” Elijah answers, and behind his eyes, he replays what he can remember of the previous night, all the way to the end. It’s like looking through a dirty camera lens; the images are vague and blurry, and really could be anything, or anyone. He doesn’t remember enough to make them real.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, and is about to say goodbye when his eye catches on a glass, filled with water and waiting by his bedside table. “Did you bring me home last night?” he asks after a pause. “It looks like someone was expecting me to wake up feeling like crap.”

Clea laughs, and Elijah winces but smiles anyway, because he can’t help but share her mirth. “Josh did,” she says, and Elijah nods, sinking down into the bed, phone pressed between his ear and the pillow. “He was the only one besides me who hadn’t started drinking yet.”

“Oh.” Elijah looks up at the water glass again, back down to the rumpled covers. It’s stupid, but he feels the immediate urge to ask if anything happened, to make sure that he didn’t pass out after doing something stupid. Clea wouldn’t know, and he doesn’t want to start rumours with no foundation.

“Thanks,” he says again, and they both say goodbye while Elijah’s mind starts wandering, eyes closing as soon as the phone clicks back into the cradle of the receiver.

He remembers that much of the party, at least. Remembers the way Josh had smiled, and the peek of his dimple along the curve of his mouth, and how Elijah’s heart had skipped a beat.

It makes sense, he supposes. Josh is the center of the cast social circle, the glue that holds them all together. He looks out for people, and they all look to him, to some degree. It’s not that Elijah’s special, or anything. Josh was just doing a good deed.

He drags himself out of bed after twenty or so minutes of drowsing and heads for the shower, because he feels too dirty to sleep, but still too exhausted to actually get up and face the day. He’s fully clothed, he realizes as he undresses, but with his shirt untucked, when he’s sure he had it stuffed into the waistband of his jeans for the party. Which could mean that there’d been some above-the-belt action, or could just mean that he’d gotten hot at some point. Probably the latter.

Maybe he is coming down with something, he thinks when the spray hits, hot and pebble-hard against his naked chest. Maybe Josh had noticed and come over to take care of him, held him until he fell asleep, left water behind to cool his brow when he woke.

Elijah shakes his head and grits his teeth when the motion makes his head swim. “What you’ve come _down_ with,” he tells himself firmly, “is an acute case of hero worship. Get over yourself and move on.”

He feels better after saying that, and turns slowly so that the water sluices down his back, between his ass-cheeks and over his thighs. There’s shampoo on the shower bar, but he doesn’t feel quite up to tackling the mess of gunky gel products that is his hair after sleeping on it overnight without rinsing. He drizzles soap onto the loofah his sister gave him as a mostly-gag gift, scrubs it over his wet torso. An unlikely backscratcher, as gentle as it is when the water softens it, but it burns where it touches his skin, and after less than a minute he’s too light-headed to continue.

He yanks the shower curtain back without turning off the water, and stumbles out into the slightly-cooler air of the bathroom with one hand gripping his head, the other outstretched to catch himself against the sink. It’s a struggle to breathe, and he recalls vaguely that this happened once before, a long time ago when he was sick and there was too much steam.

The air outside the bathroom is slap-cold, and Elijah gulps it in gratefully, taking a single step out into the bedroom before his knees give out and he sinks to the carpet and curls up, forehead pressed against the fibers.

“Elijah?” he hears, faint beneath the roaring in his ears, and then someone swears, soft and vicious, and there are hands gathering him up, turning him over.

Josh blurs into his vision, and Elijah closes his eyes, still too hot, too prickly with sweat, too dizzy to do anything more. “Too hot in the shower,” he manages, but Josh is gone, vanished over him like a phantom, and Elijah dimly recognizes the sound of the water faucets squeaking off in the bathroom behind him.

A towel drapes over him, rough and unwanted warmth, but his skin is starting to cool rapidly with the air, water chilling on his skin, and he’s grateful to be covered, at least, although the importance of that detail pales in comparison to the task of helping Josh get him to his feet and over to the bed.

“I took your spare key last night,” Josh says off-handedly, arm secure around Elijah’s waist to hold him up. “Wanted to check up on you, since you weren’t looking so hot last night. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” Elijah whispers, and then his bed rises up to meet him, bliss in cotton, and he rolls his face into the pillow to block the weak light without uttering another word.

He’s half-aware of Josh hovering for a moment, and the clink of glass at the bedside. “Get some sleep, okay?” Josh says. “Feel better.”

“Thank you,” Elijah says; or possibly just thinks, as his lips form the words without pushing sound out alongside the exhalation of air. He’s asleep before he can think of anything else to say.

 

 

_ 2002 – Los Angeles _

_Tell me you hate those bright street lights  
Sometimes the shadows give you the creeps_

 

Elijah calls one day out of the blue, on his way driving home from the store, just because he misses Josh and feels like catching up. Two years ago he would have shrugged it off and forgotten about it. But with the friends he has now, he knows better than to let chances pass by.

“What’s up?” Josh asks, voice crackling through a static-spattered cellular connection.

“Nothing,” Elijah replies honestly. “I just wondered how you were doing.”

There’s a pause, and then Elijah can _hear_ Josh smile. “Three-year itch,” Josh says, and Elijah tilts his head against the sunlight, the breeze teasing his skin as he coasts along the freeway.

He shakes his head, quizzical look wasted on a telephone line. “Does that happen often with you?” he asks, caught a bit off-guard because it _has_ been three years, and he has no idea how that could have happened. There have been a few run-ins at events, of course, but this is the first time Elijah’s made a purely social call since _Faculty._ It’s a sobering thought.

Josh chuckles, and a crackle-burst of static accompanies him. “Occasionally.” There’s a moment of silence, during which Elijah frowns and listens to hear if he’s lost the connection or if Josh is just doing something else, and then he’s back. “Where are you now?”

“On the way off the 101,” Elijah answers, already signaling to move into the exit lane. “Why, where are you?”

“Close enough,” Josh replies glibly, and Elijah starts to say something before he catches himself and waits. “I’ll meet you at Dean’s.”

“Are you sure?” Elijah asks, and he can hear Josh’s laughter loud and clear this time, in between pockets of scratchy hissing.

“Totally. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Josh’s voice is as smooth and confident as always, laidback and genuine. Elijah feels himself relaxing automatically, soothed by the timbre of Josh’s tone.

It won’t kill him to leave the groceries in the car for an hour or so. “See you then,” Elijah answers, and snaps his phone shut.

* * *

He’d forgotten, somehow, in the years between their time together and now, how beautiful Josh is. California suits him, dazzles him with bright sunshine and hippie-era chillness, and his slouch only makes him more sexy, his lazy smile altogether appealing.

Elijah had forgotten what it was like to be this close to the sun.

“Walk with me, talk with me,” Josh calls from where he’s leaning, studied-casual, against the hood of his car, and Elijah grins in response, coming over to meet him. “You look good,” Josh says, sunglasses catching the glare as he gives Elijah a friendly once-over. “And you’ve been busy, so they tell me. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

“So have you,” Elijah replies, and stuffs his hands into his pockets as Josh straightens. “But let’s talk inside over a coffee.”

It’s amazing that Elijah can have lived halfway around the world and still feel this awkward, this young. He kicks a pebble out of his way and cocks his head, pretending to be cool. Josh just smiles, superior attitude in place and as undaunted as ever.

Dean’s isn’t crowded at this time of day, but there’s always a wait for the beverages to be made. They order and end up back outside, lounging under one of the canopies covering the outdoor tables, exchanging glances. Josh pulls out a cigarette and taps the pack to offer a second to Elijah, who twitches automatically to take it and then shakes his head.

“Joshua,” the girl calls, and Josh ducks back inside to grab their drinks with a grin, juggling the unlit cigarette and both cups of coffee with a great deal more grace than Elijah would have managed. Josh nods his head in the direction of an out-of-the-way table, and they settle on the metal chairs with cardboard-disposable cups in hand.

Elijah had ordered a croissant to make up for missing lunch, but he’s finding that his appetite has fled. He picks it apart while stealing glances at Josh, a shower of bread-flakes coating his plate.

“Persnickety, aren’t we?” Josh teases, and Elijah blinks, colouring.

“Shut up.” Elijah contemplates the croissant for another heartbeat of time, and then drops it onto the plate. “I’m coffee-shop pastry-phobic,” he lies, and pushes it away with a sigh.

He feels salacious for wanting this, for practically throwing himself at Josh without a second thought when they haven’t even _seen_ each other in three years…but he’s not denying that he wants it. This isn’t an attempt to catch up with an old friend; the energy’s all wrong for that. This is something else.

Josh knows it too, Elijah can tell. There’s a speculative look on his face, and his glances are a shade too long, too serious. He gets up after another second and tilts his head in the direction of the convertible parked out in front of the coffee shop, two cars over from Elijah’s. “Want to take a drive?”

* * *

They’ve ended up at Elijah’s place, Josh sprawled on the couch and Elijah on the floor, and it’s less awkward, now, with the two of them alone. It’s as if an understanding has been reached, and now they’re just taking their time before closing the deal. Elijah still doesn’t know exactly how it happened, but he’s grateful that it has. No second-guessing.

The room smells like clove cigarettes and old takeaway; Josh lights up and smiles at Elijah through his lashes as he touches the flame to the cigarette butt and inhales.

“Remember how I taught you to smoke?” Josh asks, and Elijah swallows, his throat dry.

“Shotgun.”

Josh grins, white-flash of Hollywood teeth, and beckons. Elijah slinks across the floor to Josh’s feet, face heated because he’s _crawling_ , hands and knees on the carpet, and Josh is looking at him like a predator considering a meal.

Josh’s hands feel the same as they always did, calloused and rough, casually in control. Elijah shudders before he can stop himself, and Josh pauses on his way to Elijah’s lips to smile again, study Elijah’s eyes. His thumb traces Elijah’s jaw, tilts his chin up to a more desirable angle. _Please_ , Elijah thinks numbly, and then Josh kisses him.

He almost forgets to take in the smoke, but remembers just before it chokes him, when Josh’s tongue uncurls into his mouth and brings the taste of cloves with it. Elijah inhales raggedly and Josh pushes deeper, forcing his head back and pulling Elijah up onto his knees so that his hand can wind around the back of Elijah’s neck.

They break apart after what feels like eternity captured in an eyeblink, both of them breathing hard and staring, and then Josh settles back into the couch with a small, lazy smile. His eyes break contact to guide the cigarette over to the ashtray on the corner table, grinding it out before his attention returns to Elijah.

 _This is it_ , Elijah thinks, but Josh is letting the tension ease, tiny shake of his head as he searches through his jacket pocket, slung over the back of the couch. He returns with a familiar baggie and an even more familiar devilish smile, the kind that always ended up with Elijah getting into trouble back when they used to hang out.

“Taught you to smoke something else, too,” Josh says, holding up the bag and shaking it. “Want some?”

“Sure,” Elijah agrees, unspooling himself at Josh’s feet, relaxed and pliant. He knows where this is leading now, it’s only a question of when. Time to just sit back and enjoy the ride, let Josh take charge.

The joint is neatly rolled, but Josh doesn’t give it to him; smiles instead, and beckons with a crooked finger. Elijah rises onto his knees again, feeling graceful and fluid, decadent as Josh exhales into his mouth and molds him, the pressure of his hands directing every line of Elijah’s body.

More kisses, and more hits, and the world is floating now, slow, languid. Josh climbs off of the couch and Elijah leans back, shoulders braced against the couch seat as Josh straddles his lap, frames his head with both big hands and blows smoke divinely sweet into Elijah’s mouth.

It’s like a dream, but the details make it real; the way Josh’s hands feel when they untuck Elijah’s shirt and slide beneath it to map his chest, calluses and stubby fingernails making Elijah’s breath catch when they find the sensitive places on his rib cage, his nipples, the muscle beneath his collarbone. Josh pushes and Elijah yields, squirming slightly so that he can recline completely, Josh stretching out over top of him, mouths fused together and joint forgotten.

Josh is taking off their clothes, and Elijah helps where he can, but he’s definitely high now, and it’s easier to just explore Josh’s body with sensitized fingertips and watch Josh’s reaction to each new discovery. They should probably do this on the bed, Elijah imagines, but there’s almost something delightfully wicked about having sex on the floor, as if they can’t keep their hands off of each other for long enough to break apart and move.

Elijah doesn’t quite get it until he feels Josh’s finger, slick and cold with lube, and then he arches just at the thought, eyelids fluttering closed, lips parting for panted breath. He tries to move, turn around, but Josh catches him and holds him steady.

“It’s easier if I’m on my knees,” Elijah says, and then blushes, because what is he doing, giving sex advice to super-stud Josh Hartnett?

Josh just smiles, and shakes his head. “It’ll be better this way,” Josh promises, hands encouraging with gentle pressure, coaxing Elijah to open up and let him in. “Trust me.” His breath ghosts over Elijah’s earlobe, just before he catches it for a quick bite. “I want to watch you,” he whispers, and Elijah shivers, lets go.

Josh folds Elijah’s legs up to his chest, bends him easily and strokes his thighs. “Relax,” Josh whispers, and Elijah closes his eyes. Josh presses forward, slowly, so slowly, and Elijah hears the high, reedy whine emerging from his throat only when the sound is broken by Josh’s breathy chuckle.

“Easy,” Josh soothes, one hand sliding up to massage Elijah’s chest, calming his breathing and resting over his fast-beating heart. “I’m in you now.”

Sublime fullness, Josh moving inside him, and everything disappears except for the feeling of Josh’s body against his. “More,” Elijah whispers, and Josh pauses between thrusts, stretches awkwardly to kiss him, and Elijah whimpers into his mouth at the pressure. Then they’re fucking in earnest, thrust after thrust, and Elijah throws back his head and bites his tongue to keep from crying out.

It could be all in Elijah’s fevered imagination that Josh looks more feral now, more hungry, as if Elijah is a feast laid out for him to enjoy. Josh’s expression is still neutral, but his eyes are glittering, brown irises lost in the black luster of his pupils as he bends, presses his mouth low against Elijah’s throat and parts his lips, tongue sweeping out to taste overheated skin…

And then something happens and it all goes wrong, sharp pain in his neck that he can feel all the way down his side, and wait, no, no no no…too late. Elijah moans, or tries to, but Josh is taking that from him, stealing the sound as blood rushes to his head, roars through his ears. Elijah struggles as if he’s trapped in molasses; everything is oversaturated and slow, and he can’t stop what’s happening. He tries to pull away, but Josh’s cock is inside of him, and now Josh’s teeth, and there’s nowhere to go.

He’s aware of little things: the light from the lampshade behind and above his head, the feel of Josh’s skin beneath his hands, scratched where his nails have dug in, the staccato of his heartbeat as it becomes irregular; skips with the pull of Josh’s teeth.

“Please,” Elijah whispers, but he’s already dried out, dying, and Josh can’t hear him anyway.

 

 

_ 2005 – Los Angeles _

_Tell me the air up here’s too thin  
You can’t feel the wind when it moves_

 

When Elijah finally remembers, it’s hard to believe that he’d ever forgotten. It all comes back to him by chance, an accident, and without that moment it may never have come back at all. Charlie had bitten his neck, playing rough, and Elijah had screamed, genuine terror in his voice, shattering with the fragments of a memory he couldn’t quite pull together.

He’d remembered a few days after that, after spending his free time thinking it over, trying to reassemble the shadowy pieces of recollection. He’d remembered Josh, and an afternoon three years ago, and an ending that his mind kept trying to convince him wasn’t actually real. But he remembers now.

He’s armed himself for this meeting, done his research and prepared. He’d thought of and discarded the idea of garlic as a totem, a clove around his neck to protect him from harm. Too obvious, besides. Elijah is looking for something more subtle.

And in any case, it’s better to stick with the tried and true, something he _knows_ will kill a man, if not a vampire. The stake in his messenger bag is actually a wooden tent peg, but it’s the best he could come up with. He has a feeling that the distinction won’t matter much, to him _or_ Josh.

He tries to play it cool, calls Josh when he thinks it will appear most innocent, the day after he gets back into town. Josh still sounds surprised, which gives Elijah some satisfaction, and he presses the advantage while he has it.

“Three-year itch,” Elijah says tightly, trying to smooth his tone into something more casual. “Isn’t that what you said?”

There’s a very long pause, in which Elijah can hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart, and then Josh says, “Come on over.”

Elijah’s breath catches. “You don’t want to meet somewhere?” he asks, a little high-voiced, and goes colder when he hears Josh’s chuckle.

“Nah, here’s good. I’ll see you soon.” And then Josh rings off and Elijah left with a disconnected cell phone in his hand, the car keys in his pocket, and a tent peg lodged covertly in his messenger bag.

So he drives.

* * *

“How have you been?” Josh asks when he opens the door, and he looks good, still; sex-appeal in a white tee-shirt and low-slung jeans, and Elijah cuts his eyes away before he forgets what this is really about, and what’s lurking behind that smile.

“Good,” Elijah answers, stepping awkwardly past Josh to get inside the door. It’s better that they’re meeting here, honestly; what Elijah plans to do is going to be messy, and he’d rather not have any witnesses. He looks up at Josh, forces a shrug. “I just got back into town, been off filming for a while, and then had the press stuff.”

“Right, you were off doing that hooligan thing.” Josh gestures for Elijah to sit, in one of the chairs at a beaten-up kitchen table, with the light slanting in through the curtains in narrow stripes.

“ _Hooligans_ ,” Elijah corrects, nervousness making him edgy, jumpier than usual. “There’s more than one.”

“Right, right.” Josh doesn’t appear to notice the slip in Elijah’s control, busy pulling down glasses. “Care for a drink?” He sets two tumblers on the table and searches behind the bar before pulling out a clear bottle. “Vodka?”

Elijah hesitates, and Josh sees it, catches him in the act of considering. “It’s a good vintage,” Josh promises, tempting, and Elijah rolls his eyes, urging his muscles to unknot so that Josh won’t see right through him.

“Just pour,” he says, and Josh does, splash of liquid in each glass. Josh drinks first, sipping as he slides into his chair across the table. Elijah tosses his back with an ease that he perfected in New Zealand, and feels better once he can taste the burn in his throat, loosening him up a bit.

Josh says something, and then stands to take Elijah’s glass, probably for a refill. But something doesn’t feel right, Elijah doesn’t get drunk this quickly anymore, and his body feels as if it’s slowly slipping out of his control. It’s a dreamy feeling, a surreality, like his limbs are floating in water, and he’s drifting.

Elijah looks up to see that Josh is standing perfectly still, watching him. Portrait of a young man, Elijah thinks, and then it hits him.

“What have you done?” he asks, and tries to stand, but his legs bend and slip beneath him, and he doesn’t actually move.

“GHB,” Josh answers quietly, still watching him. “In the vodka.”

Elijah tries to breathe and can’t, fighting the pressure of terror and dismay. Not like this. He had it planned, it doesn’t end like this. “You knew,” he says, and his words slur, smear together.

Josh grins, sets the bottle down and makes his way over to Elijah’s side of the table, stalking slowly and carefully. “Baby, I saw you coming from a mile away.” He stops just short of Elijah’s chair, studying him. “I wasn’t sure you remembered, until you showed up with that look in your eyes. You forgot, the first time. I thought you might again.”

“The first time?” Elijah asks, and forces himself to take deep, calming breaths, eyes focused on Josh. His messenger bag is heavy against his side, the strap still slung over his shoulder, and he drops a hand to the buckle, subreptitiously working it loose.

“You lost your virginity to me,” Josh comments easily, and Elijah remembers, although it’s like groping through the mist for a unicorn. He remembers the party, and the hotel room, and the first time that he thought had gone to someone else.

Josh tilts his head, and Elijah swallows at the beauty of it, the pose. “I’ve always regretted that you couldn’t remember it,” Josh says, and Elijah thinks _I do_ , but the words don’t come. Josh smiles, another blinding flash, and Elijah’s heart drops. “Pity.”

“Pity?” Elijah echoes in disbelief. “Pity I remember you drinking my blood?” It leaves a sour taste in his mouth to say it, as if the words evoke the act, and somehow it’s never been real until this moment, until he sees the confirmation in Josh’s eyes.

“Pity,” Josh repeats quietly. “Because it means I can’t have you again.”

Elijah’s heart skips, painful twist, and his fingers fumble a little more urgently at the strap. He’s got his hand almost in the bag now, but the stake is buried, hidden amongst the clothes and jewel cases. He needs more time.

From somewhere inside him, a tiny reservoir of courage bubbles up, swells until he can breathe, take his life into his own hands and throw out the challenge. And there’s temptation, so strong and so sweet, to have Josh again. To feel Josh inside of him, taking him, owning him completely.

“Do it again,” Elijah breathes.

He can see the surprise in Josh’s eyes, but also the hunger, and his own rises sharply to meet it, dizzying him with sudden lust. “Glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” Josh asks, but his eyes are gleaming. He takes another step closer, and Elijah tilts his head back to keep watching Josh’s face, feels the cool air on his bared throat and shivers.

“I can’t,” Josh says regretfully. “The drugs are in your bloodstream now. They would affect us both.” He speaks slowly, though, and his eyes dart to Elijah’s neck, Elijah’s chest heaving beneath the long-sleeved shirt

“Like you ever cared about that,” Elijah challenges, eyes falling shut. He doesn’t want to watch now, just wants to feel. “Josh. Bite me.”

He can feel Josh hovering over him, sense the hunger that Josh is holding so rigidly in check. “Will you let me make love to you first?” Josh asks, and Elijah’s body thrums, dizzy and overwhelmed. He struggles for clarity, fighting the poison that’s disabling him, and opens his eyes.

“Will I forget again?” he asks. His hand closes convulsively over polished wood, a decision he can only make once.

Josh’s smile is sharp, wicked. He’s so beautiful that Elijah can’t breathe. “Not if you don’t want to,” he says, and takes another step, trouser leg brushing Elijah’s thigh.

“I don’t,” Elijah whispers, and Josh bends, cradles Elijah’s jaw in his hand and tilts his face up into the light.

“Please.”

* * *

_improv words: croissant, vodka, sublime, pity, staccato, salacious, fold, push, dimple, superior, phobic, portrait, vintage, luster, daunted, persnickety, backscratcher, pebble, hooligan, acute, totem, glutton, glue, subreptitious, feral, calamine._


End file.
